


Becoming One

by hollowed_brownie



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Kidnapping, Self-Harm, XReader, secondperson, y/n
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:01:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26893351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowed_brownie/pseuds/hollowed_brownie
Summary: "It wasn’t the first time you’ve been threatened by a demon, and it certainly wasn't going to be the last time either."Not everything goes well, especially when dealing with creatures older than time itself, so one can only expect countless adventures.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I have written, especially using Second Person and Present tense. Umm.. that's really all I've got to say here...  
> Also there will be more than one chapter lol, gotta practise somehow. Writing tips are always welcome. If there are any situations or ideas that you like, tell me and I'll see if I can include them in any way.

It wasn’t the first time you’ve been threatened by a demon, and it certainly wasn't going to be the last time either. The two of you have reached an impasse, frozen in place, neither one willing to make the next move. The brisk air of the catacomb curls around you, licking your fingers and toes with frostbite. His rufescent eyes are boring into yours, silently telling you to put the Grimoire down.

“We have been over this before, put down the Grimoire and let it be.” The words rumbled from deep within his chest, causing the surrounding air to vibrate.

“I just wanted to look,” You punctuated each word with disdain, “I’ve never looked through one and I want to know what it actually is.”

“Of course you have seen one before, and if you want to know more about it, ask Satan, he will be knowledgeable on the subject. That Grimoire is a threat to my family and I do not want it in the hands of a fragile human like yourself.”

You could not help but huff at that ridiculous reasoning.

“I can’t believe this, do you not trust me?”

“This is not an issue of trust-”

“I already have pacts with all of your brothers, what help is the Grimoire?” The thick, leather-bound tome in your hand holds no more power over the youngest six brothers than you already have.

“I am aware, and this is not about you misusing it, but rather another forcibly taking-”

“Oh, I get it.” You interrupt, returning the Grimoire to its original resting place on the lectern, then squaring up to the fallen angel. “You are afraid of the prospect of me having any form of control over you. Your pride is so fragile that you are afraid of even the thought of submitting to a human. You are afraid-”

“YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SHIT!” His acerbic words cut you off with no hesitation. His patience is wearing thin and you’re certain he would transform into his demon form twice over if possible, “We offer you a home, new experiences, powerful beings older than time itself that would destroy themselves to simply satisfy you, and all you are is a burden and a toll on everyone!”

Rage flares in your chest, contorting your face into one of sheer wrath and indignation. Despite not having the safety net of a pact with Lucifer like you did the others, you let the words tumble out of your mouth.

“Kill me then! If I am such a bother, kill me! Your brother didn’t have a problem doing it!”

An unknown emotion flits across his face, but it disappears as soon as it comes, replaced with what can only be described as irritation mixed with wounded pride. His palpable hostility is enough to make you want to instantly throw up regardless of your current lack of fear and sense of self-preservation. Lucifer advances forward, yet you make no indication of moving, if anything planting your feet further into the ground. His hand grips your cheeks as he tilts your chin towards him. His soft lips brush over the curve of your ear and you feel his lungs drawing his hot breath in and out.

“I will do a whole lot worse than Belphegor ever did to you, trust me.” His retort does not fluster you in the slightest, his threat washing over you like he never uttered a word of ill-will. Nothing could be worse than risking life and limb to free a captive whom you felt for, only to be betrayed and have all your hard work rewarded with death. The firm grip Lucifer has taken on your face is broken when you shove his chest. You decide to call his bluff.

“Try me. See if you can do worse. I have met death. She’s now my lover, and I nearly see her every fucking week in this household.”

That is the final straw. Maybe he was previously bluffing, but that last remark just broke the thin thread of patience he had been holding on to. Before you have time to process anything, you are rocketed into the pillar behind you. Although you do not know where exactly the cracking noises came from, the purpling of your ribs and the hot liquid seeping into your hair indicates a high likelihood of them coming from your own body.

Your vision transitions from dull black to vivid white and back, like a rave between life, death, and unconsciousness. In the hazy snippets of reality, you can make out the demon, or rather the vague outline of him and his wings, striding towards your broken body. The smooth stone of the column cools the pulsating sensation buried at the base of your skull as he drives your head further into it. If not for the gloved hand and the column, your head would have rolled to the side, your neck lacking any and all strength.

He seems to be saying something, his lips moving rapidly, his brow wrinkled, and his eyes wide and screaming. You are certain that he is spewing threats, but the ear-piercing, head-splitting ringing in your ears drowns out all of the menace. Your eyes drift to behind Lucifer and he tightens his grip, pulling your face closer to his only to immediately slam your head further into the pillar. The throbbing in your head elevates to a pounding that you can feel behind your eyes. A hazy figure rushes towards the commotion through the grand archway that is the entrance, although you cannot recognise who it is. The figure splits into two, no, three beings rushing to your aid.

The hands plastered around you soften, disappear, then turn feather-light. It takes you a moment to register that those hands are no longer Lucifer’s, but those of a brother. Which one is unknown, but even the soft touch burns your excoriated skin. You slump lower into the ground and your torso flops forward. Your eyes are heavy, breathing is a chore, and all you want to do is stop. Your eyelids droop and the rave in your eyes finally settles, choosing unconsciousness as the show dies down.

_____________________

The weak pull of reality is an unwelcome sensation. Your eyelids refuse to open more than a slither, leaving your surroundings for the most part a mystery. From what is identifiable, though, there are now six familiar figures standing tall, all in their demon form, the tension thick in the air. His own brothers have formed a horseshoe around Lucifer. The seventh brother, Asmodeus, is coddling your limp body. You have no idea how long you have been out for, but it was long enough for the ringing pulsing through your ears to subside just enough to hear, albeit muffled. Asmodeus’ baby-soft hands feel like sandpaper wherever they touch. The sweet affirmations that he is whispering in your ears soothe nothing, his honey-like voice (which seemed to shake far too much for the usually upbeat demon) being drowned out by the pain surging through you and the tumult of shouting and screaming that had broken out and filled every corner of the room.

You spot the seething demon that is leading the assault on Lucifer. Satan’s anger contaminates and thickens the air even at this distance. He gives you his back as he tears into his elder brother. Belphegor accompanies him in all of his beratement and admonishment. Their muscles and scapula shift and make minute adjustments, tensing in what one can only presume is preparation for a fight.

“...Satan...” Your raspy attempt at his name rips your throat apart. The weak word does not reach him. However, at the end of the horseshoe, Mammon’s ears prick up at the barely audible moan. He darts to your side with his ashen face and tears dribbling down his cheeks. Leviathan follows suit and hovers over his elder brother’s shoulders. His mouth falls agape and his head slowly shakes with incredulity. The sight of a mangled body, and not just any mangled body, the mangled body of someone he cherishes, is too much for him. Leviathan turns around to make a hasty retreat out of the room. His tail whips around and collides with Mammon’s head who makes no rebuke to his gauche younger brother, opting to wipe away the fresh tears that have spilled over.

To ignore the torment plastered on Mammon and Asmodeus, you refocus your eyes and attention on the altercation occurring ahead of you. Hands are flying and wildly gesturing in accusation. Satan and Belphegor take the front line with confidence. Beelzebub, on the other hand, floats behind them suffering from indecision. He shifts from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with many aspects of what is happening. His nervousness spills into the action of fiddling with his fingers incessantly. Beelzebub finally makes the decision to come towards you, but before he makes it consciousness slips between your fingers and you once again are lulled into a twisted sleep.

_____________________

“They’re not dead yet.”

“But they will be soon.”

“They can’t just die.”

“Oh, but honey, they just might.”

“Look, I’ve found this.”

“We shouldn’t use that.”

“Whaddaya mean? If it’s gonna help the human, whatcha hesitating for?”

“We don’t even know what it is.”

“We don’t really have a choice.”

Those words are the last thing you make sense of before returning to your insensate state.

_____________________

Without even opening your eyes you can tell that you no longer lay on the marble floor of the catacomb. Your fingertips brush over a corrugated surface. It takes only seconds for each ridge and groove to flow with rivulets of your blood. Your breath hitches. The rustling of six heads turning to face you encourages you to open your eyes. Contact with the air causes your eyes to water, chasing away the dryness that plagued them. You flinch at the sensation and clench your eyes shut.

“Shh… no need to move.” You feel hands comb through your blood-soaked hair. The hands are big and gently unknotting the especially clotted areas. You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. You lie there like a gaping fish until you realise the futility of it.

“Oh look, the cut on their arm has opened again.” Belphegor’s voices an observation, but it might as well have been a command as someone has already begun dressing the wound.

Asmodeus whispers to a brother, clearly not intended for you, “Why don’t we just use that stuff on their cut?”

It is Beelzebub that responds from above your head, “We’ve run out.” He didn’t say it condescendingly, but you could just imagine the bright flush that fills Asmodeus’ cheeks after asking such an oblivious question. Beelzebub’s hands continue to disentangle your hair, doing his best attempt to clean up such a pitiful state.

“Wash the blood off them,” Satan pipes up, bringing the attention of the room onto him, “Once they are cleaned up and everything has stopped spewing blood, move them to the spare room.” His words put everyone into motion if the new frenzy and cluttering is anything to go by. Hands are everywhere, feeling you up and down for even the slightest bruise that went unnoticed. They are all soft in nature, aware of the new level of fragility you are in and careful not to disturb the precarious patchwork of first-aid.

“Lucifer…” The hands pause at those two syllables you utter. Every. Single. Hand. Not even so much as a breath can be heard. After an uncomfortable silence and stillness, Belphegor speaks up.

“That little fu-”

“He will be residing at Lord Diavolo’s for the time being.” Satan cuts Belphegor short. Unlike usual, Belphegor does not interject or retaliate. He lets Satan continue.

“For now, spare him no thought. We will deal with that matter later.” He says it as a matter of fact and leaves no room for misunderstanding. “Now we have to move you, and it is going to hurt. Belphegor.”

With that they all remove their hands, leaving only Belphegor’s. They start at your hips and run up your sides, trailing heat that blooms and covers your whole being. The two hands come to rest on your temples. You can feel his body mass lowering towards you as he whispers, “I’m sorry… Actually, I think you’d prefer this over having to feel what’s coming next, not that you can let us know anyway.” Questions shoot through your mind but they get stuck in your throat no matter how hard you try. However, you don’t need anyone to answer when the scorching heat rips through your abdomen with no warning. Your cries of agony catch in your throat, reducing them to some gruttal gurgle. The heat travels to the nape of your neck and blossoms, enveloping your entire skull in fever. Sweat beads on your forehead and lip while convulsions surge through you. Spasms in your neck are held down by Belphegor’s forceful grip. His is followed by four others, one pair on each limb, to keep you from thrashing off the table.

“Oi! Hurry up!”

“I’m trying.” Belphegor hisses back at a distraught Mammon, “It’s gonna be harder to put them to sleep now that this has started.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your eyelids flutter. Just as you reach your physical limit, you fall still, bar the odd twitch. The heat still rages within and you still feel like you are being gutted and torn in two. Coherent thoughts had abandoned you long ago, and it is only a matter of time before you give into Belphegor’s relentless pursuit.


	2. Chapter 2

You are beginning to get a little tired of waking up. Tempted to remain in the soft embrace of what seems to be a bed, you remember what had led you to wake up here. You jolt upright to find yourself in the spare bedroom. You had never really been in here before, but like the rest of the House of Lamentation, it is grandiose. The bed lies directly opposite the entrance, and despite its massive size, barely took up a sixth of the room. At the end of the bed on both sides stood two pearly white pillars engraved with the most intricate detailing. Warm rays shine through the sunroof that is straight above where you sit, which is baffling to you as the Devildom doesn’t even have the sun nor an equivalent.

Continuing to inspect the room, your eyes almost wander past a huge mass slumped over on the extravagant chair in the corner. His gentle breath of sleep is visible from across the room. The steady rise and fall of Beelzebub’s chest rids you of some of the tension and confusion from waking in an unfamiliar environment after experiencing unfamiliar events. Put at ease and no longer wrangling to get your breathing under control, you swing your legs to the side and place them on the smooth wood with a muted thud. 

Just before moving to stand you feel a hand on your shoulder. Beel’s eyes look down into yours as he towers over you. It is clear that he has been fretting over you for however long you were out for, the telltale signs plastered on his face. The weight from his hand relaxes the knuckle-whitening clutch you still had on the doona. Your name comes out shaky, but he manages to steady his voice before finishing his sentence.

“You shouldn’t get up.”

“Beel I-”

“Please.” He grips your shoulder a little tighter so that the pressure is trending the line between comfortable and just bearable. Your heart drops at the face he makes. His bloodshot eyes squeeze shut as if doing so could block out every painful moment he has gone through. The corners of his lips drop while the bottom slightly quivers, just enough to be visible. 

You concede and lay back down only to nearly be swallowed by the mountains of pillows behind you. Beelzebub takes the corner of the doona and pulls it up to cover you. Even after releasing the blanket, his hand continues to move, stopping only once they’ve reached your head. His hand cups your cheek. His thumb begins a calming stroking motion that circles around your cheek.

“Close your eyes.”

You don’t have the heart to say no. Your eyes flutter shut and his fingertips trail off your face. Your face burrows to the side, searching for his hand to no avail. The absence of heat leaves an intense yearning for touch. A rustling of footsteps echo through the room, followed closely by a faint thud of the door shutting. Giving a few seconds leeway to ensure he is gone, you squint open one eye. As quickly as Beel had left the door begins to open. Your eye flies shut to prevent being caught after Beelzebub just asked you very nicely to keep them closed.

“What did you forget?” You cheerily ask the demon. He says nothing. Your smile falters a little at the silence. You hear a chair being dragged across the room to be positioned next to the head of the bed, then the bed shifts. Your body moves around as pressure on both sides of your arms causes parts of the bed to dip. The presence of a body above you is stifling as it is just shy of pinning you down completely.

“A kiss.” Leaving no time for you to react, his head bows down and his lips brush yours, softly, delicately, like butterfly wings, just long enough for you to inhale his breath and directly feel the warmth of his skin. All too quickly he pulls back. 

Your eyes open to see Belphegor leaning over you with a shit-eating grin.  
“Now as easy as it might be to just curl up next you, I’d better not. Don’t need Mammon tearing through here and raising your blood pressure.”

“How considerate…”

“I know.” He draws back and the bed springs back into place with the absence of his weight. He takes a seat on his chair he had pulled up that looks far too heavy for any human to move. Belphegor hunches over and rests his forearms on his knees. His fingers fiddle ever so slightly, no doubt a habit he picked up from his twin. 

“What brings you in here, Belphie?”

He stops messing with his fingers to shoot you a glare that says you just asked him the stupidest question in the world. 

“You mean I shouldn’t check on someone who I nearly saw die?” Belphegor raises his eyebrows and waits for a response. He doesn’t get one, instead getting a sheepish grin from you. You are very tempted to bring up the fact that he has indeed witnessed your death before, and he was indeed the very cause of it, but refrain from doing so at this ill-suited time. I don’t want to cause more anxiety. Bringing up the incident that everyone so desperately tries to banish from their memory is a low blow, but sometimes it is the only way to gain the upper hand when conversing with any of them. Luckily, now is not one of those times. 

“I came up because I felt a shift. So many emotions just hit me,” he chuckles at the memory, “I thought I was going to throw up.”

“...Is that a good thing?”

“I dunno, couldn’t even tell what they were, but I did know that it meant something happened.” Belphegor fixes his eyes on you, “Honestly, I thought you died in that stupor and Beel was the one to find you.”

“Oh…” You have no words for that assumption. All you can do is wait for Belphegor to continue. 

“But you’re still here, so that’s that.” He leans back in the chair, pushing it back further and further until the front legs are elevated. He kicks his feet up and rests them on the edge of where your legs lie. His hands cuddle his neck and his elbows are flared out. Belphegor closes his eyes without so much as a flutter. 

A silence falls over the two of you, although you are not sure whether it is only uncomfortable for you. He seems content in it, the rise and fall of his chest so consistent that you cannot be sure that he didn’t fall asleep the second that his eyes shut. 

While you are busy contemplating how Belphegor hasn’t tipped off of his chair in his sleep, the door bangs open. Your head shoots up to find Mammon leering in the doorway. His stance is wide with arms to match. The lighting doesn’t do him any favours, obscuring his face and practically the rest of his body, although you can still make out the heaving of his chest. 

“Mammon,” You were going to say more but the words are smothered by his body pressed into yours. He had crossed the room in the blink of an eye and is now holding you closer than ever before. 

“Hey now, it’s okay.” At hearing your words his hold somehow becomes even tighter. His hands grasp to feel just a bit more of you, to remind himself that you really are here.

“I thought…” Mammon presses his damp cheek into your hair. He then digs his face into the curve of your neck to try and stifle his small sniffles. You pretend to not hear them for his sake. 

You rock back and forth slightly, coddling his head and whispering sweet comforts. The two of you stay like this for a while, neither one of you willing to break this small moment of quietude.

You pull away from Mammon’s embrace only when a ruckus arises outside your door, ensued by hushes louder than the actual commotion. You feel a little huff from Mammon more than you hear it. The door opens with a groan and a stream of demons enter, no doubt trying not to interrupt but failing dearly. Upon seeing the two brothers near you, the mission to not disturb you is aborted. Asmodeus shouts your name as his arms swing open and swoop you into an embrace. 

“Oi, ya can’t just brush me aside Asmo!” Mammon exclaims, not trying to hide his annoyance at his brother’s interruption. Immediately the two begin to bicker and you are, like always, caught in the middle. I guess some things don’t change, even in these situations.

Belpheogr’s eyes lazily open. He doesn’t so much as flinch, having mastered the art of gracefully awakening in a household of constant interruptions. He dons his usual ‘fed up with this bullshit’ face before making a move towards the exit. Levithan tugs at his arm as he walks by.

“Aren’t you going to stay?”

Belphegor looks at you, then his brothers, then answers. 

“I’ve checked in on them. I missed both my morning and my afternoon naps the past two days, I’m overdue.” He finishes his smooth exit with haste, but not without flashing you a quick smile first.

The remaining brothers have congregated at the foot of your bed, albeit Mammon who remains perched on the edge of the bed, pouting, and Asmodeus, who is still nestling into you. A wide range of emotion colours their faces. 

Leviathan is the easiest to read. He is remarkably tense. You have never seen him this rigid, even when he was having to sell candy apples at the festival. His eyes are visibly dry and strained. Red veins creep along the outer edges of his sclera. Dark stains are smeared underneath both eyes. Somehow he looks more tired than after a back-to-back marathon of his favourite shows that, mind you, can take upwards of a week. 

Satan stands besides him. He is clearly mulling over something. Small things betray his otherwise composed demeanor. The way his eyes shift and never focus on one thing. The way tiny facial muscles twitch as new ideas enter his brain. The way he holds himself, slightly on edge. He is unable to hide the gears turning in his mind. Something is bothering him. 

Asmodeus, on the other hand, is over the moon. No worries can reach him now that he knows you are safe. He is all too eager to get up close and personal under the guise of ‘making sure that your lovely skin has not been disfigured’. It reminds you of the night when you made a pact with him, how he examines you from head to toe. Since that night not a day has gone by that he hasn’t doted over you.

Beelzebub looks relieved. Relieved that you are safe, relieved that you are here, and relieved that they were able to save you, unlike Lilith. He rolls his neck from shoulder to shoulder to attempt to soothe the pain that is residual of sleeping upright in that chair. His hands hold a tray filled to the brim with sushi of every imaginable type. 

“She probably doesn’t feel like eating, Beel.” Leviathan utters from out of nowhere. 

“Who would ever feel like not eating.” Beel sets the food down on the chair Belphegor had dragged over, “Now eat.” He stares in the eye until you reach down and take a small roll. You hear a nearly incomprehensible ‘good’ from his unmoving lips. He returns to speaking in an audible manner. “You don’t have to eat it all now, but you need to build up strength.”

“Let them be, Beel.” Asmodeus pipes up from where he is nuzzled in your lap.

“He’s right. We are just checking in,” Leviathan sweeps his hair off his forehead, “They probs just wanna sleep.”

“Aww, they’ve been sleepin’ for 3 days though!” Mammon, done with his pouting, turns to face Leviathan, which in turn shifts the bed, “Doncha think that’s plenty?”

“Didn’t you see what they went through? Drop dead you ignorant maggot.” Mammon’s casual dismissal of his insult rankles Leviathan. Beelzebub attempts to abate the conflict before it has a chance to grow by repositioning himself between them to keep them out of each other’s sight. Miraculously, it works. 

“How do you feel?” Satan says, completely disregarding his brothers’ antics. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Yes I-” the words fall out of your mouth before you realise that you don’t actually remember clearly. Sure, the basic premise was there - your antagonising, Lucifer’s rage - but it is mostly a haze. “I kinda got the jist of it.”

“I’m surprised you’re not dead! That stuff did wonders! Your skin is even glowing darling.”

Before then you hadn't taken notice, but Asmodeus’ words prompt you to recognise that your body is free of any pain, not even a small ache troubled you despite the immense physical toll put on your body not too long ago.

“Wait, what was that stuff guys?” you ask.

“That?” Satan hesitates with his words, “Well, actually…”


	3. Chapter 3

You are on the edge of your seat. What was that ‘stuff’ that managed to pull you back from the dead? It can’t have been any ordinary thing if even the Devildom’s strongest are impressed and baffled with its results. 

“We actually don’t…know.” You take notice of the paper in his hands that he is examining. It looks like it had been torn off a bottle, “The label reads 

x̸̫̖͒͑̊̎̕̚è̴̛̦̱̫͇͚͙̦̙̦͍̲́͌̀̃͑̎y̷̳̠͙̪̦̔͒͐͋̍͗̿̂́́̾̋ͅa̶̱̖̭̲̕ͅļ̴̧̞̺͖̣̬̲̺̗̣͉̅̿͋̀̋̐̏͂͛͊͊̚͠ ̷̢̨̢̡̫̞͙̰̹̘̩̪̙̘̐̇̅͂͆͠z̶̡͖̼̜͉̒̔͋̄̕͜ȕ̷̲̠̫̰̭̊̔ͅͅr̷̭͚͉͉͛ ̶̡͎̟͍̤̝͔̥͉͓̗̣͉̮̈̔̄͝ä̴͉̭́͆̏n̶̛̰̜q̸̧̛̛̣̭͚͉̹̈́̃̏̋̍͒̅̌̈́́͑̋a̴̢̼̫̝̤̘͚̞̙̻͖͑z̶͎̪̳͓̟͖͓͎̰̉̾̀̏̕ ̷̨͈͇̳̣̞̘̑x̸̨̳̝̼̘̤͚̰̬̩̅̋͑̈́͒͑͜͝͝͝e̶͙̲̜̔̈b̵̡̗̙̠̹́͊̈́͐̓͛͗i̶̤̱̭̳̥͕̯̾͋͜ͅͅŕ̷̨̡̢͙̲͉̠͕̫͎̣̀͌́͆̓̓̾͂͘d̸̛̳̱̀̊̆̀͗͒̉͑̍͘a̴̤͚͐̿͋r̸̨̰̖̗̞̳͎̯͇̙͙͖̥͐͒̈́͋̓̒̑̓ ̵̦͈̮̃͑̏́̆̆͒̅̇̑̌͋ơ̴͍͕̹̱͚͓̈́͊̐̾̌̈́̽l̶̢͎̫̄͛̉̈́̃̿̃̉̆͠͝ṉ̶̛͈̀͑̈͗̽͒͐̑̽͐̚’”. 

Satan says it like you are supposed to know what that means. You look at him with wide eyes and tight lips, staring until he clarifies.

“There isn’t really a human language translation, but even if there was it wouldn’t help, because all 6 of us can’t make sense of what it is trying to say either.”

The room is dead silent and Satan’s words hang in the air. You replay what you can remember happening with Lucifer through your brain a few times. _I must have been on my deathbed if they filled me with a forgein substance from hell._

“I still don’t get why we couldn’t just do what we did when they died the last time.” Leviathan says, breaking the silence.

“For the last time, Levi, we don’t really understand what happened then, and the only one who absolutely knows, the master of antagonising demons,” Satan gestures towards you, “was not in any position to help us.” 

A giggle rises from your lap, “I doubt even they have a clue what happened back then.”

You can’t disagree with Asmodeus. The events leading up to your death and after your death were not exactly easy to comprehend. That’s just how it is in the Devildom sometimes.

“Well, you guys manag–” You interrupt yourself with a yawn and the brothers, even the usually resistant, clingy ones, collectively take this as a cue to leave you be. 

Leviathan is the first, desperate to get away. He keeps his head down. You think you can spot some damp patches on his cheeks. Leviathan has never been known for having great control over his temper, emotions, or thoughts, you have noticed he instead prefers to hide away until the f e e l s, both the good and the bad ones, leave. 

Asmodeus slowly lifts himself out of your lap, trailing his fingers up your sides, leaving shivers in his wake. His thumbs trails your jawline. He turns your face to the side with such gentle ease. He leans in close and drawls in your ear, “Darling, please recover quickly. There are so many things I want to do to you.” Asmodeus pushes you back and pins your wrists to the silk sheets. Your heart beats amps up, which draws a sly grin from Asmodeus, a moue of annoyance from Satan and Beel, and starts Mammon on a blubbering protest. “I’ll make you squ–”

Before the flirt could finish his sentence he is dragged by the collar of his jacket towards the door by Beelzebub. Asmodeus is yelling and prying at his fingers, insisting that his clothes are designer and that Beel’s food-covered hands are not only stretching, but staining them. Beelzebub continues unfazed. He leaves with Asmodeus in tow, but then pops his head back in. His free hand motions a spoon scooping towards his face as he mouths the words ‘Eat up’. You can’t help but smile at the gentle giant, the only one willing to wear his heart on his sleeve. You lean past Mammon and grab a roll of sushi and lift it up to show Beel. With a thumbs up, he leaves.

Now only Mammon and Satan remain. Mammon fingers twitch on his thigh. He tries to hide it, but his eyes keep ‘sneaking’ glances at your hands. He doesn’t do anything, though, instead squeezing his eyes and giving his head a little shake. He gets up and proceeds to the door, leaving a – more than physical – empty space beside you, which Satan then fills. 

“We still have to attend RAD. I hope you understand.”

“Of course, don’t limit yourselves for me.”

“Hey,” Satan’s eyebrows lower and a sad smile sits on his face, “we don’t mind looking after you. We care for you and would be utterly destroyed if you were to leave us too soon.”

Too soon. 

Yes, the inevitable fragility of humans. It is an indisputable fact that one day you will leave a gaping whole in their hearts. You feel as if the demons who care for you so often refuse to acknowledge this and push it to the back of their minds. No matter how well they take care of you, they can never truly have you, as you are fleeting; a breath of fresh air in their otherwise immutable existence. All you can ask is that they remember you long after you are gone and that they will heal from the loss.

“Yeah, you gotta squeeze all the time you can out of me.” You end your sentence with a weak laugh.

BANG! The door crashes open to reveal Mammon, who doesn’t seem to have gone more than 3 metres away from the door in the first place.

“SATAN! Why ain’t ya coming?”

Satan closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “I am explaining to this little lamb here what the arrangements are for the following weeks.”

“Oh really, then why hav–”

“MAMMON!” Satan pinches the bridge of his nose, “Why are you still here and not on your way to RAD?”

“Well, I–” Mammon stutters, but only a little, “I can’t just leave ya here alone with my hum– I–I mean the human.” He then mumbles something unintelligible, but you can’t help but feel he said something about ‘treasure’ and ‘valuable’. 

Satan all but ignores Mammon, who is beginning to evaluate the room, turning back to you instead. 

“It’s good to know that Mammon is back to his scumbag ways,” You quip.

“It’d be better for everyone if he’d just stop.”

“I think it’s sorta endearing, he sees himself as more of an opportunist anyways.”

“No,” Satan spares only a glance for the moneygrabber and continues, deadpan, “It’d be better for everyone if he’d just stop breathing.”

Mammon stops in his tracks, returns the delftware he’d be handling to its stand, and marches over to Satan. 

“Oi, I’m ya older brother, Satan! How about you show me some respect, especially now that Luci ain’t here.”

“You know what? You’re right. Now that Lucifer is not here,” Satan cranes his neck to look at Mammon, “There is no-one here to stop me from testing my 666 ways to torture on you.” Mammon’s eyes widen as flashbacks of Soloman’s arrival emerge from his memory.

“You right, my bad,” Mammon hunches his shoulders and slowly backs away, pointing to the corner he came from, “I’ll just be back here.”

Your mind is still churning over the fact that the house dynamics have been flipped on their head in Lucifer’s absence. With Lucifer gone, there is no-one to keep the boys’ shenanigans in check and keep them from killing each other (and themselves). As prideful as he is, and as much as he’d hate to admit it, Lucifer adores his brothers and would move mountains to keep them safe. Surely he will return soon.

Satan brings his attention back to you. “Right, as I was going to say, here is what we’ve organised. You have two weeks off of RAD. Starting tomorrow, one of us will be here with you each day to care for you,” He lifts his finger up to silence you, “even if you don’t think you’ll need it.”

You nudge his finger down and out of the way. “Okay, but why not today?” You ask.

Satan answers your question quickly and to the point, saying that they simply need a day to organise their RAD tasks.

“Regarding the House of Lamentation, I have taken over authority in Lucifer’s absence.”

“Does that mean you get his seat at the head of the table?” You joke with a huge smile on you face. It’s nice to feel some level of normalcy and ease. 

Satan lightly chuckles, “Of course I’ll be sitting there. I don’t particularly like the spot, but if it pisses off Lucifer, I will do it.”

A thought suddenly hits you. “Hang on, Satan, shouldn’t the eldest take over in running the house, isn’t that the hierarchy here?”

You both simultaneously look over at Mammon, who currently has both feet on the wall to use his whole body weight to try and rip off an expensive-looking painting that is magically bound to the wall, like every other painting in the house is. 

“Okay, nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

“So I was thi...nking…” Satan trials off. His eyes –the colour that lays the background to every spring, the colour that brings peace and tranquility (ironic considering his status as the Avatar of Wrath), the green that radiates growth – steadily look over you. They take their time soaking in every perfect thing about you, flaws and all. His eyes finally meet yours and his cheeks ripen. 

“Sorry,” He averts his eyes, “I was just–”

An outcry cuts Satan off and gives you just enough time to turn around and witness Mammon crashing to the ground, his own hands flying to whack himself on the forehead.  
He lies there, groaning, rolling slowly from side to side. Satan’s expression is the definition of ‘I have no sympathy for you’.

Mammon gets up, now sporting a crisp, red handprint that stains his previously blemish-free forehead. Tears sprung at the corners of his eyes mostly from the shock. He blinks a few times to rid himself of them, then promptly exits the room all flustered without a word. After he leaves you here a flurry of giggles at Mammon, and you yourself can’t help but laugh a little.

Satan utters your name, drawing your attention back from whatever just happened, but his demeanor has had a drastic change. He is no longer the entranced puppy captivated by your aura, but an old mother dog berating her puppy for reckless decisions.

“What were you thinking?” Satan’s eyes look directly into yours, somewhat distressed, “Surely you know that you were likely to die?”

“Nah, my plan was to die. I have a speech coming up and I’d rather be in a casket than doing that.” Your attempt to ease the qualm in the air fails miserably. Satan draws his shoulders back, only to let them drop even further forward than they were before.

“Stop joking. It wasn’t a small thing, you were legitimately moribund.” Satan’s words trail off to barely a whisper. His eyes have the gaze of a goat’s, unable to focus on anything, stuck in a memory. Your hands subconsciously flit to where most of the damage previously was, attempting to subtly scope just how effective that stuff was. Satan eyes refocus and follow your hands. He reaches forwards with tentative hands, pausing just before they brush over your ribs. 

“May I?” His question extends to his whole being, even his hairs standing on end, anticipating your response. You give him a slight nod, allowing him to assess the results. Satan’s hands are not the roasting things you’ve come to know and expect from demons. Rather, they have a gentle warmth, providing a sensation similar to that of human touch. 

“Incredible,” you hear him mutter mostly to himself. Intrigue and curiosity has always been strong in Satan. He holds intelligence and knowledge in high regards. They are not things you are born with. Anyone willing to put in the effort can become powerful through knowledge. It is where he can gain equal footing with just about anyone. It is also an area he has had to work harder to catch up with his brothers, being born centuries after them. There is no substitute for experience, and reading is as close as you can get. 

It’s like someone flips a switch. Satan rips his hands back, like he has just realised how close you are to him. “I-I’d better go now.” He hastily makes his way towards the door. He adjusts the bowtie of his crisp uniform as he walks. Just before he leaves, he gives you a smile which would melt even an angel’s heart. 

And with that, you are left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Solomon's Arrival' refers to an event in the card 'Proud Brothers'. It's nothing important, just a reference.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Self-harm

The room, now with only your presence, seems a million times bigger, and a million times lonelier without them. The (you can only assume artificial) sunlight tickles your nose as it shines through the sunroof above where you lie. Normally the sun–especially this directly–is either comfortingly warm or stifling, but this time neither applies. The rays simply fall onto you and illuminate the room that stretches out to the walls decorated all over. You slowly get up, careful to be quiet in case the brothers had not completely left yet, and stand on shaky legs. You stretch out each limb individually, checking again and again for anything, even a niggle, but miraculously there are none. There were a few cracks here and there, but they’re just from lying down for, how long did Mammon say again? Was it, three days? 

You reach for the book that has been left on the bedside table. It’s thin, but the hardcover adds a weight to it that just feels right in your hands. It is a simple cover, no artistry, just a red spin on a black background. The gold lettering reads ‘Lord of the Flies’. The book is still in perfect condition. You flip open to the first few pages and smile at the dulled inscription in Satan’s cute, messy handwriting. 

‘This book can be viewed to be about the importance of the rule of law, and the complexity of human beings,’ It was so like Satan to want to understand one of the most predictable and simple, yet most complex beings on Earth, ‘It is a primary source of how humans view their kind, and how their psyche is complex enough that they also sought to understand themselves. In simple terms, this explores why people do bad things and uses my brother Beelzebub (known to the human race by many names, one being ‘Lord of the Flies’) as a symbol of the evil and savagery of human nature. It is interesting to see how humans cannot fully blame themselves for their downfalls, projecting onto and blaming others instead. Or perhaps it is a different way for humans to understand themselves using outside objects as tools. Nevertheless, it is quite intriguing to see the uses of my brothers and myself in human literature. (Also quite an enjoyable read.)’

You cannot help but smile, getting insight into how the elusive demon who always dons a facade thinks. How lucky are you to be this close to some of the most powerful beings in the known universe? How lucky are you to be this close to beings that could wipe you from existence without a second thought? 

A small glimmer radiates at the edge of the room, enticing you to place the book back and head over towards it. Upon the shelves above the escritoire that matches the elegant bedside table (a polished dark oak trimmed with gold) rests many a things. Candles, rings, and spoons, for some odd reason, line the area, with even more unusual and intriguing things surrounding them. The thing which has caught your eyes, though, is the one that glimmered, although it would have had your attention even without the almost magical shine it possesses. 

The antique, leather-bound photo album was simple, yet elegant. On the front the word ‘change’ is scrawled; the messy handwriting holds a certain graceful dignity. The book is a little stiff, but with a little tugging it opens. Flipping through the pages, it is painfully obvious that this is Asmodeus’. The back pages are filled with selfies of himself, even photos that had been cropped to focus on only him. A small scribble at the corner of one page notes: cropping these was the only way to not embarrass the poor souls who have to stand next to _me_. 

While the back photos are just of himself, they begin to become less and less common towards the centre. Here, the photos make you squint your eyes and chuckle. They are photos of Asmodeus with other humans and demons, thousands of them. In each one, Asmo is wearing clothes that you have only seen in history books and period pieces. Asmodeus would have surely been wearing only the most fashionable, and the ‘fashionable’ makes you nearly burst out laughing. 

Through the laughter, a sense of loneliness washes over you. You are one of many for Asmodeus, probably for everyone in the House of Lamentation. You nearly place the book down with your dying laughter, but decide that it will be a good distraction. You know that the brothers will only be gone a few hours. Only a few hours and they will be back to make you forget your insignificance. They have a way of making you feel special. Even that thought cannot comfort you from the forlorn steadily rising. 

The front pages of the portfolio are things unlike you have ever seen. Selfies don’t have a place here. Instead, photos of lights of every colour dancing in the skies above a palace resting on clouds plaster the pages. You can practically feel the warmth of the light against your skin. Portraits and candid photos of both familiar and unfamiliar faces greet you. They were all there, the whole family. And there is Simeon, hugging Lucifer tightly, a winsome smile on his cheeks. 

Her photo–in which she is by a quick flowing stream, cupping water with koi coming and kissing her hands–twists your stomach. That’s your smile. She has your smile. From the shape of her mouth to the squint of her eyes, that’s yours. You throw the book down, not wanting to feel the unease digging a whole in your stomach with its dull shovel. 

_I need air._ It is just an excuse to get you away from the album. Moving around after intense events is often warned against, even the brothers said this. You make your way across the room anyway. Why would they care what happens to you?

You walk over to the arching window that matches the rest of the room. Through the thick glass, you can see over the Central Devildom. It always manages to take your breath away; the purples, pinks, and greens swirling together in the air, artfully painting the flurry of activity in the bustling streets. The silhouette of the Demon Lord’s castle is astounding, visible even in the shadow of the cliffs that look crafted by God himself. The city in front of you is something that you previously never would’ve imagined belonging to a society of demons. 

You slid your fingers under two wooden hooks at the base of the window. You heave upwards, a small grunt escaping you. The window moves up the slightest amount with a crunch, showing just how long it has been since it has been opened. It wasn’t as heavy as you thought it should be. With a few more yanks, the deep and sleepy air pools into the room. A rustle behind you causes you to turn and see a tarp being blown aside to reveal finery so enthralling.

How you missed them before, you have no idea, but at the edge of the room stand seven mannequins. On them are draped the most beautiful, ethereal clothes you have ever seen. They sparkled a white so pure it is nearly translucent, but not quite. Shades of blue, from turquoise to navy, seep throughout parts of the fabric, pastel yellows and greens made their way through too. One mannequin even had pink be a secondary colour on its clothing. The colours, as captivating as they are, are not even the most awe-inspiring aspects of the outfits. Each one is unique and holds its own personality, yet they are still coordinated and fit together. On some, the fabric flowed and twisted through the still air as if it is dancing in the wind or floating in crystal clear water. 

Despite never having seen anything as seraphic before, they seem oddly familiar. The way they look, the way they move, is reminiscent of … oh. 

You stagger back a few steps, wanting to get away from the trinkets of a past life. You can clearly see which brother used to wear which one, their angelic clothing so similar to the now demonic boys. Your eyes avert to the ground. The feeling that your snooping went too far and have seen some things that you shouldn’t have compels you to pull the tarp–more of a tapestry really–that is hanging from up high around the mannequins. The vestige of their previous glory stirs something inside you. Those seven have lived such long, exciting, indescribable lives, and for some reason, they have a soft spot for a random human. 

You notice an envelope that has fluttered off the bookshelf with the gush of wind from the tapestry. With gentle fingers, you pick it up and place it back, but to whom it is addressed makes you pause. 

Lucifer.

Privacy is something that is sought and should be respected, but often isn’t. Curiosity outweighs courtesy. The envelope is no longer sealed, making it easy for your fingers to slide under the baronial seal flap and pull the letter out. The paper feels new, if a little pilly. The letter is written in a hand you don’t recognise.

_Dearest Lucifer,_

_I would like to acknowledge you, brother. How far we have come, how far we have made it. It pains me to say, but with your proposition, I do not believe our ideas of the great future ahead of us are quite the same. You have changed. That is inevitable in our never-ceasing existence, and while I will not rise against Arch-Angel Micheal, I will neither divulge information to the Archs. Please know that I hope that no harm comes to you or our brothers and sisters. You must take care of the ones who will follow you. You are a leader now._

_We are truly inseparable, and by chance or fate, I know that we will be reunited once again. It may be 3000 years, 7000 years, maybe even longer, but we will be brought back together._

_Until then,_

_Simeon_

Simeon? Uprising? You are at a loss for what any of this means. These angels and demons exceed time and have an understanding of the universe parallel to none. They are something that your tiny, puny, human brain will never be able to process. You are just a burden placed onto them. They tolerate you because, though unwanted, you are their responsibility. 

The room, already uncomfortably large, begins to grow, twisting and turning into elastic shapes. Actually, maybe you are just shrinking. To them, you are nothing but an ant, incapable of comprehending anything of importance. And what do people do to an ant infestation?

_They squish them._

You are useless to them. You enrich their lives in no ways. You are nothing but a lowly human, clinging to them. The air has turned into concrete, encasing your breathing and your limbs. The memories are returning. All of them, all at once. Every single time you were nearly, or in one case were, exterminated as an unwanted pest hounded your mind. The memory of Lucifer reaching his long, gloved fingers around your delicate neck might as well have been real with how tight your throat was closing. 

Black spots danced across your vision, hiding parts of the room, then showing them a second later. Your locked knees refuse to let your exhausted, frightened body collapse, holding you hostage in your own body. Every sound the room made was amplified, each creak and each gush of wind sounding like an avalanche. It can’t drown Lucifer out though, his deep powerful voice that commanded the R.A.D launching insults without slowing down.

_Weak._

_Useless._

_Clingy._

_Boring._

_Ungrateful._

_I’ll do worse._

_Trust me._

Tears prick–no, sting the corners of your eyes. You claw at your throat, desperate for any amount of relief. The knuckles on your hands are bone white on the hem of your shirt. The fabric isn’t easy to tear, but you are giving it a run for its money, the threads holding precariously together. Every one of them are there now, surrounding you, standing out in the haze of black veins. Mocking you. Insulting you. Hurting you. The brothers are showing their true colours.

“STOP! LEAVE ME ALONE!” 

You don’t know how loud your screams are, only that they quickly dissolve into incoherent wailing. You collapse, your knees finally giving in. Your arms wrap around your head and your hands cup your ears as you curl up to protect yourself.

Who would’ve thought that this is what breaks you. You have been through so much: betrayal, heartache, guilt. Many things brought challenges that you have overcome since you came to the Devildom, but none have hurt you, broke you, as much as this. It was just the trigger, the thing that tipped the ever growing scales that now plummet into dizzying, chaotic darkness. 

Returned are the memories you wish to forget. Every. Single. One. From since you joined the exchange program to now. 

The good ones haven’t gone, yet something much worse has happened to them. No longer are they the happy, love-filled things you had come to cherish, but tinted with hate, suspicion, and most of all, fear. You pull your knees tighter to your chest to try and fill the expanding emptiness there, to stop the good from leaving you. It is pointless. They–every single one of the brothers–surely despise you.

_No, no, that’s. That’s not true. Hush now, they cherish you._ **No they don’t, you’re just naive.** _A child. No, they love m–_ **you thought that about Lucifer, and see what happened. He tried to remove you from his life, everyone’s life. And you know better than anyone that he does only what is best for his brothers.**

Your throat is red, dry, and tight. The air stills. You are suffocating in your own head. Or maybe you are suffocating in the reality of your situation. No-one here needed, or even wanted you. 

And if they all think that way,

Maybe they have a point.

Your joints stiffly uncurl and you stagger to the escritoire, hoisting yourself along the furniture to keep yourself upright. Rummaging through it’s thin drawer, the polished dark oak felt like ice against the heat of the blood pounding beneath your skin. Belphie better not have been lying when he said he kept them around.

You find it. The small, ornate blade no longer than your hand, but sharp enough split a feather in half. Soon it is going to be sharper. You are going to whet it with your own flesh and bone. The detailing of the dagger is intricate; small, but obviously a language. Is it demonic or angelic in nature, or perhaps something even older? It doesn’t matter though, as long as it can set you free.

The blade is cold against your skin. Not a cold which makes you yearn for a fire-side seat, but a cold that allows you to sleep on a blistering summer night. Your hand is shaking, a small tremor starting in your spine before progressing down your arm to your wrist. 

You pull your hand across swiftly. The sting is unfamiliar to you, but not unwelcome. It kept your attention on the burning, split skin rather than the angry words all around. Drops of blood pearled on the thin line. The pearls grow bigger until they burst. Blood trails trickle down your wrists, clinging onto your skin as it drips down your arm. It is like a valve directly to your doubt and distrust opened and they are physically flowing out. Your eyes close and your head tilts back, exposing your hot throat to the cold air. Your breathing slows as the panic leaves with the blood. It’s like relief can make its way directly into you through the open wound. 

The blade is still on your skin, ready in case it’s needed again. The voices, along with your own, are drowned out to nothing but a whisper. Your mind is silent, _calm._ It is short lived. The door slams open. Panic sets in. Your heart thumping as the knife slips through your fingers and falls to the floor with a resounding clatter. 

Who was it? What are they going to think after seeing you with an ever growing puddle of blood at your feet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it has been a while! Now that I have free time, I will be updating regularly! The chapter is quite messy, so point at anything that you found difficult to understand and I will fix it up.


End file.
